The Sister Act
by The Voice of the Bones
Summary: What if Dean had a twin sister? What if they had been separated at the age of eight after a hunt gone bad? Read to find out. May contain gore, but if you like supernatural you already knew that. I suck at summaries but please read.
1. Sister, Sister

What if Dean had a twin sister? What if they had been separated at the age of eight after a hunt gone bad? Read to find out. May contain gore, but if you like supernatural you already knew that.

This story begins in season two and might jump around a bit, I haven't decided yet. Cuss and possible gore warnings. R and R please but be nice. I don't own any of the characters (Except Harlyn) so, like, don't sue me or anything. And ass for the title that is based off the movie 'The Sister Act' it just seemed appropriate.

 **Chapter one: Sister, sister**

 **Prologue**

It started on a hunt gone bad.

I'm sure you can imagine it.

The woods. The middle of the night. The middle of nowhere. Thousands of stars, there was less pollution here, less city lights. A large hunting rifle clutched in the entirely too small hands of a terrified eight year old girl. Not that you could tell that she was a girl, with her hair cut short like her brother's, or that she was eight for that matter.

See the quick glances at her twin every few seconds, half to make sure he had her back, half to let him know she had his.

A silent promise shared only between siblings in a language all their own.

Hear the loud call of her name.

See her whip around.

The thing with claws.

The yelp. The slash. The blood. See girl fall.

Gunshots overhead.

Girl lifted out of the grass. Girl put in car's backseat.

Brother petting sister's hair.

Brother scared.

Car barrels into hospital parking lot.

Girl taken away on a stretcher with squeaky wheels.

Full day in a hospital. See Dad think. Dad takes brother back to shitty motel room.

Dad returns to hospital.

Dad makes decision.

Dad returns to shitty motel room later that night.

Dad does not have girl.

See boys confused.

See Dad tell Boys that girl is dead.

See Dad lie.

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 **Nineteen Years later**

Dean had a list of things that he would never forgive his father for.

It wasn't a very long list but it was there.

And this, this, was at the very top.

Right where 'Letting Harley Die' used to be.

Because she wasn't.

Dead that is.

He kept his hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel not even listening to the music that filled the car. Sam sat silently in the passenger seat which he was grateful for. Dad had just told them that he had lied and that their sister wasn't really dead, and neither of them could even be properly angry because he was dead. He had told Dean that Harley was alive and then he died.

Harlyn Millie Winchester.

He went over the name again and again in his mind.

Harlyn Millie Winchester.

As far as he knew Sam didn't really remember her. Sure he knew that he had a sister, Dean's twin and that she had died when they were eight and he was four, but there were things he didn't remember. He didn't know that she hated mac and cheese and how she liked Batman more than Superman or how she used to read Sam 'Where the Wild Things Are' so he could sleep at night.

How she read it so many times that she could read it without looking at the book.

These are the things that Dean remembered that he was sure Sam didn't.

They were on their way to Richmond, Virginia, the last known place of her last foster parent, Ana Sanchez. How Sam found her he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know, but they had decided to do some research on Harley and maybe weasel her location out of Mrs. Sanchez before actually making contact.

Ana Sanchez wasn't hard to find at all. She had lived on her family farm out side of Richmond her entire life. Sam rang the door bell.

An older hispanic woman opened the door.

"Can I help you?" she asked in confusion taking in the two men in suits in front of her.

"Are you Ana Sanchez?" Sam inquired

"Yes?"

"Hi," Sam said as they both pulled out their badges "I'm agent Hetfield this is agent Tufnel" he gestured to Dean "we have a few questions about one of your foster children Harlyn... Davis?"

Her expression darkened. "Now really isn't a good time she just got back from a funeral-"

"She's here?" Dean asked

Sam shot him a look "We don't need to talk to her yet we just need to ask you some questions. May we come in?"

She hesitated before nodding and ushering them in.

"She's out back working on the car." she added leading them into the living room.

"Would you like anything to drink?" she Inquired as they sat on the couch.

"Oh, no thank you."

She nodded and sat down across from them.

"Mrs. Sanchez how long has Harlyn been living with you?"

"She was placed here when she was sixteen but she hasn't lived here since she was eighteen. I would have adopted her but we couldn't afford it." she smiled "But she still comes to visit."

Sam smiled politely back "Where did Harlyn go when she left here?"

She smiled wider "She went to a college in Boston. MIT. She got a scholarship. And then she moved in with her husband…"

"So she's married?" asked Dean

"She married Shaun Evans right out of college," she said sadly "they wanted to get married before she was deployed, but he died a few months back. It was terrible." she got up and picked some things up off the mantel.

"These are of her." she said giving each one a framed photo. Sam took in the photo of a girl with the same colored eyes as Dean in a wedding dress posing with a dark haired man in a suit, both beaming at the camera. He glanced around the living room at the other photos. There were a few other photos with her and some other kids scattered around.

Dean took in a straight faced girl in a Marines uniform. It felt like a punch in the stomach.

"Mrs. Sanchez how did Shaun die?" asked Sam

"A fire in their house. You might have met him actually, he was an agent as well." she admitted

"He must have been in-" Sam began when the back door slammed shut.

"Alright Ana, that should do it…" a girl called walking in. It was the girl from the pictures. Harley. She froze in the door way behind Mrs. Sanchez. Dean froze. It was her. She was really alive. She glanced from Sam to Dean with an odd look in her eyes.

"What's going on here?"

Mrs. Sanchez smiled and turned to look at her

"Harley these men are from the FBI they just had a few questions for me."

She walked forward to stand beside the couch.

"Can I see your badge?" She asked in a way that implied that it wasn't really a question extending her right hand.

Sam gave her his badge.

She studied it for a minute, with an expressionless face before handing it back to him and pulling a gun out of the waistband of her jeans and aiming it at his chest.

"Whoa!" Dean yelped snapping out of his shock.

"Harlyn Millie!" Shrieked Mrs. Sanchez jumping up.

"Ana go to the kitchen." she said calmly

"What are you doing?!" Ana yelled.

"They aren't feds." she said "The numbers are wrong. The badges are fake."

"No," Sam said holding up his hands in surrender "They're not, they're real."

She snarled "My husband was a Federal agent and I was in the military. I know what a real badge looks like."

Dean attempted to get up. "I have a glock leveled at your partner are you sure you want to do that?" She asked. He sat back down.

"Look," Dean said "You're right, we're not FBI,"

"I'm calling 911." Said Mrs. Sanchez moving towards the kitchen

"My name is Dean, this is Sam."

Her eyes flashed with recognition for a second before she lowered the gun slightly.

"What?" she gasped

"You know these people?" asked Mrs. Sanchez, pausing.

"Tal vez. Quédate aqui y no te muevas."* Harley said before turning back to them "Get outside. Now."

When they got outside she raised the gun back up.

"Who are you and how did you find me?" She demanded to Dean.

"I already told you. My name is Dean Winchester, this is my brother Sam. My father's name was John and My mother's name was Mary. You're my twin sister. I called you Harley. When we were eight you got hurt. Real bad. Dad told us you died."

Her eyes narrowed. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a flask.

"Drink this." she demanded tossing it to Dean. "Him too." she said nodding at Sam. He took a swig before giving it to Sam.

Nothing. No hiss, sizzle, pain, or death.

She put the safety back on the gun and shoved it back in the waistband of her jeans.

With the threat gone her face relaxed and she smiled. For the first time Sam could really see how she and Dean could be twins. They had the same green eyes. Hell she even had the freckles. And when she smiled they both had shit eating grins.

She flew forward and hugged Dean, hard. He hesitated before hugging back just as hard. "Its really you!" She said into his shoulder before pulling back.

"And you!" She exclaimed turning to Sam. "The last time I saw you, you were in pull ups!"

Dean laughed as Sam blushed.

"God, Sammy, you got tall." She said hugging him, too.

She felt him wince a little at 'Sammy'.

"I'm sorry." she said backing up "You're what? Twenty-three now? You probably don't go by 'Sammy' anymore huh?"

"How did you guys even find me? It's been nineteen years?"

"Dad." Dean said simply.

A/N

* Maybe. Stay here and don't move.


	2. Mr Twin Sister

A/N: I updated the last chapter and fixed up some things so that they will make sense later on and I added in the spanish translation that I forgot. Thanks for the review, it made me smile!

 **Chapter 2: Mr. Twin Sister**

Driving for twenty or so hours hours of following the Impala to Bobby's house gave me a lot of time to think.

Whether or not that's a good thing is yet to be determined.

I thought about TJ's funeral and his poor wife and son, I thought about Dad, Ana and Luisa, but mostly I thought about how entirely jacked this entire situation is. My dad leaves me in a hospital to the mercy of CPS when I was eight, I jump from home to home, and finally land somewhere good with truly good people, I go to college, I make friends, I graduate, I get married, and then at twenty-one I _join the fucking Marines_ for _almost six_ _years_ and _three_ tours of duty. Then I finally get home for good, I spend nine months adjusting back to civilian life and then my husband… And then six months later my brother's show up at my front door on the day of my friends funeral, and now I'm going with two strangers to see a man I haven't seen since I was _seven_ so we can hunt some monsters _._

What even is my life anymore?

I mean _shit…_

I cranked up 'Old Time Rock and Roll' when it finally gets to track seven again for the second time today and start to sing along.

I have a rule in my car that I won't listen to the same CD back to back more than twice, for fear of a) Wrecking the CD and b) Making myself hate the songs.

I changed the CD's out nine times before getting there.

"Bien. Vamos a rockear esto." I said reassuring myself after parking next to the Impala (leaving a wide gap). The thing about being placed in a bunch of group homes and staying with a hispanic couple for two years is that I speak more spanglish than I do any other language.

I join up with the boys at the front door just as it is beginning to be opened up by an older man in a worn trucker's hat. Bobby Singer looks exactly like you'd imagine a man who owns a scrap yard would look, and he looks exactly like I remember.

"About time you idjits got here…" he said to them before pausing to frown at me.

"Hey Uncle Bobby!" I said smiling, widely waving at him from behind the boys who turned to look at me. Sam shot Dean a confused look.

I could practically smell him thinking ' _Uncle_ Bobby?'

"Do I know you?" Bobby asked carefully. _Right._ I thought. I hardly look the same as when I was eight and even then Dad probably told him I was dead, just like he did everyone else.

"Bobby, you remember Harley, right?" Dean introduced.

Robert Singer stared me down with furrowed eyebrows.

"Balls." he hissed loudly.

Balls indeed.

 **Dean's POV**

Harley passed out at the table reading at around one in the afternoon after being awake for at least thirty six hours. Sam had fallen asleep on the couch a few hours earlier so now it was just me and Bobby awake, researching, and drinking whiskey. Both of us would glance at her in increments, waiting for something to happen. We had salt, silver, and holy water checked her once before leaving the Sanchez residence and once again when we entered Bobby's house. And, according to Bobby, the tattoo on her chest, just below the place where the left side of her collarbone met her shoulder, right over her heart, was an anti-possession symbol.

A pretty good idea actually.

Either way she wasn't a demon, shifter, revenant, or skin walker.

This chick was really not what I expected. At all.

For one thing she had far more tattoo's and piercings than I expected.

I eyed the trail of black birds flowing down her right forearm and the small cross behind he left ear. The ear with the three piercings.

To be honest I had no idea what I expected, the girl who kept her hair shorter than Sam's was now because "What's the point in having long pullable hair? It's useless." and was missing her two front teeth?

Bobby glanced over to see me staring. Again. "God." He said tiredly for the third time since we walked in.

I nodded.

Explaining to Bobby what Dad had done had been... Harsh. To say the least. Bobby had been like a father to us ever since I could remember. He had known her then too, back when we were sharing clothes and learning how to read. Hell, he's the one who taught us.

She shifted slightly in her sleep and her head lolled off the place it had been resting on her arm to the book on the table before sighing slightly.

I yawned and stretched before getting up to check on Sam and grab one of Bobby's other books about demons.

 **A/N**

 **Uh… Really short chapter. I'll try to make the next one longer. Next up on 'The Sister Act' Sammy breaks into someone's car to do some snooping. Please R and R. Any Suggestions for later chapters or questions? Message me.**

 **Spanish translation: 'Alright. Let's rock this.'**


	3. The Memory Box

**A/N**

 **Next chapter is up! Thank you for the reviews! More Please! This one should be a little longer. I still own nothing but Harley... *Sighs dejectedly***

 **Chapter 3: The memory box**

Sam woke up earlier than the others. Not that it was early, judging by the light shining through the windows it was well into the afternoon. He stretched quietly before looking around. Bobby was asleep in his easy chair with a book resting on his chest and a beer on the side table, with Dean and Harley asleep at the table. It was strange how alike they were asleep. They both slept face down with their heads on their arms slump over on chairs opposite each other.

She could easily be a female Dean.

He wasn't sure how he felt about her yet. He supposed that he was happy for Dean. I mean he had just found out that his twin sister, the person he had literally never lived a minute without for _eight years_ , even before then, wasn't dead. It was strange suddenly having another sibling, especially one he knew nothing about.

Sure he knew he had had a sister at one point and he knew her first name and that she had died (or not) when they were young. He remembered asking questions about her now and again when he was little.

Before.

But Dad never answered them, and Dean and Bobby just looked really sad anytime he asked anything so, eventually, he stopped asking. Just not before he finally got an answer.

 _ **# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #**_

" _Can you tell me a bedtime story?" he asked quietly from the bed of another crap motel room._

 _It was late. Far past his bedtime, and beyond any reasonable time for a seven year old to be awake. Even Dad was asleep, and Dean was clearly trying._

 _He just couldn't sleep. Again._

" _Mmmmm…" he groaned rolling over to face Sam._

" _Just go to sleep…" he grumbled._

" _I can't until you tell me a story." sam replied in a whisper._

" _Fine. What do you want?"_

" _Tell me about The Sister."_

 _Dean froze. "What about her?"_

" _Anything." he exclaimed tiredly._

 _Dean thought for a moment, and Sam squirmed with excitement at finally getting to know something. Dean never answered his questions about her. Or mom, for that matter._

 _Dean looked at his brother for a moment before closing his eyes again._

" _She could never sleep either. She used to stay up with you at night so Dad and I could sleep and you wouldn't have to be alone." he got quiet for awhile and for a minute Sam thought that he might have fallen back asleep._

" _She loved you alot." Dean said finally._

" _What about you and Dad and Uncle Bobby?" asked Sam_

" _What about us?"_

" _Did she love you too?"_

 _It got quiet again._

" _I think so."_

" _Did you love her?"_

 _Dean rolled to his other side "Go to sleep Sam."_

 _It was apparently the wrong question to ask. He didn't ask anymore questions._

" _Happy Birthday De." he whispered into the darkness._

 _ **# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #**_

So here he was trying to convince himself that this was the right thing to do. Break into Harley's small, black, Jeep Wrangler. Then maybe she would stop seeming like The Sister and more like an actual person, with a life and a soul, and less like a story told to a seven year old so he would just shut up and sleep.

God, this was such a Dean thing to do.

That didn't stop him from jimmying the window and unlocking the car.

In the passenger seat there was a box of CD's that was packed to the brim. AC/DC, Bob Seger, Metallica, Motorhead.

He shook his head. What is with this family and Mullet Rock?

He thought back to Dean's collection and snorted. At least they weren't cassettes.

He popped the glove box.

There wasn't much in here. A pack of cinnamon gum, a pack of tissues, ID, insurance card, a few pens, and a college ID badge on a grey MIT lanyard with a little Batman keychain in the very back along with a 'Rage Against the Machine' CD. Nothing incredibly personal.

He opened the sun visor on the passenger side. Nothing.

The visor of the driver's side to see one picture clipped to the inside. It was an old polaroid of who he was sure was Harley and the man from the wedding photo, Shaun Evans, except they were younger, maybe eighteen, and sitting across from each other in an old diner booth. The photographer had caught them mid laugh. He unpinned it from the visor and flipped it over

 _Harley and Shaun,_

 _Date night, June 12th, 1997_

 _Taken by Talia Gates,_

 _Spy, photographer, Journalism major,_

 _Best friend of the future Bride_

'And apparently fortune teller' he thought because if his information was correct this picture was taken when she was seventeen, a freshman, and they didn't get married until four years later.

He pinned it back up and shut the visor before moving to the back.

There was an old army duffle on the back seat, but he decided that he wouldn't touch that unless absolutely necessary.

He wouldn't go _that_ far.

He pulled out his phone to use as a light to shine at the back floor.

"Crap." he hissed as the phone flew out of his hand and under the seats. He crawled back and ran his hand along the carpet finish for a while before his hand found a latch.

What?

He pulled it open. Inside he found another army duffle that was wide open.

This one was basically a beginners kit for hunters. Rock salt, silver knives, shotgun, salt rounds, real rounds, matches, wooden stake, darts, dart gun, holy water, etc.

No surprise.

Next to the duffle was a clear plastic wrapped uniform and tin box.

He picked the box up and took the lid off.

More pictures. Alot more.

The top picture was of her and a dark haired girl with their arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, from what he could tell the dark haired girl was holding the camera. He flipped this one over as well.

 _Talia Gates and Harley_

 _Last day of Freshman Year_

 _1997_

The next few photos where the same pose except different years.

 _Last day of Sophomore Year, 1998_

 _Last day of Junior year, 1999_

 _Last day of Senior Year, 2000_

 _Graduation, 2000_

 _Bachelorette Party, 2000_

There are other photo's with other people too, Most of which starred either Shawn and his friends, or Harley and her friends, or both of them with all of their friends, or just the two of them. He felt a brief flicker of sadness at the look of love on both of their faces as his thoughts flickered to Jess. He shrugged it off and went back to flipping through photos.

"They're from my wedding." a voice came from outside of the open door. He jumped up in shock and smashed his head on the ceiling and spilling the pictures all over the backseat.

"Shit!" She yelped "Sorry Sammy- I mean Sam- I didn't mean to startle you, I just- I came out to get my jacket and you were in my car and I- I just… Shit-sorry-shit!"

He shot her an incredulous look "I just broke into your car why are you apologising?!"

"I just- I, well, kind of expected one of you to go snooping, curiosity and all, and I just didn't know which one of you- and you hit your head really hard- God are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine I just uh…" he laughed "I'm surprised is all. I guess."

She laughed too before laying down the front row of seats and sitting cross legged on top of them.

"Let me help you with these." she smiled bending over her legs in an awkward position to pick up the photos. He helped her pick them up.

"They're from my wedding." she said again. He glanced up at her from where she was staring at one of them. "My friend, Talia, took pictures all of the time. She literally never left home without a camera. So in freshman year, when she found out that I was a foster kid and there were only like three pictures of me in existence, she lost her _shit._ " she smiled slightly. "Anything I did there is a picture of it, working at the diner, studying, working out, anything. There's a few of me sleeping somewhere in here… when Shawn and I started dating she took a ton of him too. Eventually she put a DVD together of all of the photos and then some videos too, and played it at the wedding." she smiled wider never once looking up from the photos.

"After she gave me all of the photo copies and a copy of the disk in that box for a wedding present." her smile faded "It's one of the only things that survived the fire. Been in my car ever since." She glanced up at him. "So, just so you know, I'm not, like, building a shrine or anything." She went back to picking up the photos.

"I didn't think that." he said. She pulled a picture out of her stack and put the rest in the box.

"Do you have any pictures of mom?" He nodded in confusion at the change of topic. She raised her eyebrow. "That just belong to you. Not Dean, or Dad, you."

He shook his head no, having no idea where this was going. "It burned in the fire."

"Here." she said handing him a picture. It was an older one of two little kids, one who he recognized to be young Dean and a girl, who looked an awful lot like dean in pigtails, that he assumed was Harlyn, sitting on either side of a beautiful blonde woman holding a baby. Mary and Sam.

"It was in my duffle the day Dad, well you know…" she shivered slightly.

"I can't take this Harlyn." he said trying to hand it back.

"You don't have a choice." she snorted "Besides, it's not that big a deal. Everyone deserves to have a picture of their mom, and I already have a copy." She grabbed her jacket from the back seat next to him before crawling out of the car. "I trust you can lock up."

She pulled the jacket on turning around. "And Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"I hear 'Harlyn' and I look over my shoulder for my social worker." she smiled over her shoulder at him.

"It's Harley."

And with that she walked away, leaving him holding a stack of pictures in the back seat of her car.

 **A/N**

 **So whadaya think? R and R. Questions or suggestions, you know what to do.**


	4. Serial Killers Anonymous

**A/N: I still own nothing. This chapter contains swearing. Like, lots of it. There is some dialogue from the show.**

 **Chapter 4: Serial Killers Anonymous**

I woke up in a box.

At first I thought it was a nightmare, buried alive- wake up in a coffin, that kind of thing.

And then I realised that the box was metal and concrete and it smelled like death and chloroform.

Chloroform.

Ghost.

Shit.

I shimmied my hand to my back pocket and pulled out my flashlight. A breath caught in my lungs when the light came on. Blood everywhere. And scratch marks everywhere.

Someone had clearly cried to claw their way out of here.

I shivered.

I was trapped in a murderous ghost's secret sewer lair with nothing to defend myself but a pure iron ring on my right pointer finger. Because I was an idiot and dropped my damn knife somewhere inside the maldito muros*.

A cheap, several sizes too big, five dollar ring against the ghost of H.H. Holmes'.

I guess it's better than nothing.

"Hello?" someone yelled "Is anybody there?"

Jo! I turned to the slat in the metal door and stuck my fingers out.

"Jo?" I called back.

"Harley?"

"Yeah, it's me. You okay?"

"Other than the fact that we've been kidnapped by the ghost of a serial killer who had a thing for blondes? Yeah, I'm great."

"Can you see me?" I asked wiggling my fingers.

"Yeah. Can you see me?" I looked around the room until I saw wiggling fingers across the way in the slat of another box.

"Yeah."

"Hello?" came another voice "Who's there?"

"You Teresa?" I asked.

"Yes." she whimpered.

"This isn't gonna make you feel any better but we're here to rescue you." Jo said shakily

There was a strangled sob.

"Sam and Dean will find us." Jo assured, to us or herself I have no idea.

The door clanged open. I quickly shut off the flashlight.

Other than a soft whisper it was completely silent.

And then Jo started screaming.

"Jo!" I screamed "GET AWAY FROM HER YOU-" I let loose a string of spanish curse words and slammed my hands against the metal over and over until Jo stopped screaming and a dirty grey mustache was in front of my door.

He reached straight through the metal.

"Aléjate de mí, hijo de puta!" I hissed, putting as much venom into the ords as I could manage.

He looked momentarily confused but he reached over and grabbed a hunk of my hair anyway.

"You're so pretty…" He whispered.

I shuddered my stomach twisting into the same feeling I had gotten with too many foster fathers, employers, and professors.

I slowly reached up and grabbed his wrist as tightly as I could with my right hand and gripped as tightly as I could before he ripped out the hunk of my hair with a scream and disappeared.

"Pure iron Mother Fucker!" I screamed out even though I knew he was gone.

"Jo! You good?" I called

"I'm not dead." She yelled back

"Good! Stay that way!"

"Is he gone?" Teresa cried

"I-I don't know." Jo said "I can't see anything."

I pressed my face up against the slot and looked out, I couldn't see anything useful.

"Me either." I started to drag my fingers down the walls and every nook and crevice. Nothing. Funnily enough I wasn't such a fan of small places. As in I didn't like being inside the when I couldn't get out or had the possibility of getting locked in. I wasn't surprised that I couldn't get out, clearly more desperate girls than I had tried and failed at escape. Tough or not I was not able to bust my way through concrete or solid steel. I slammed my hand on the door once more for good measure and my ring, my last line of defence, flew right off my hand and into the far corner by my feat. Out of my reach in the small container.

"Son of a bitch!" I whispered wanting to hit myself for being so stupid.

Good news, without the acid vats he would probably just let us starve to death in those metal boxes, which meant time.

Bad news, he was dead so I couldn't fulfil my fantasies of putting my light yellow colored, converse high top clad foot through his creepy perv face.

That Fucker.

I closed my eyes and clutched my flashlight, listening. I couldn't see anyway so what was the point in keeping my eyes open?

Maybe ten minutes later the temperature of the room seemed to drop. My eyes snapped back open. I listened harder.

"You're so pretty…" came a hoarse whisper across the room and then another shriek.

"TAKE THAT YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

I waited a beat. "You stab him?"

"Yeah."

I nodded even though she couldn't see me.

"Good girl."

I'm not sure how long it was before it got cold again. I lost track. I kept my eyes closed and pressed myself against the far wall. It was sudden. The hand over my mouth and nose, cutting off my oxygen supply. I twisted madly trying to get away for a while before slowly ceasing to struggle and going limp. He removed his hand and slipped away. Ghosts don't feel time so he wouldn't know that he only kept me air deprived for sixty one seconds and that wasn't nearly long enough to kill someone. I sat quietly trying to breath in shallow breaths unlike gasping like I wanted too. I berated myself quietly.I should have remembered that strangling was a preference of his. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl.

It was quiet. When he was choking me. If he had gotten to Jo I would have never heard it.

No. NO! I would have! I would have heard it! Jo is good. Jo is fine! Dean is going to find us and we're all going to be fine...

Gunshots. Two. Shot guns. Ten feet to my left.

"HARLEY?" Yelled someone. Dean.

"Jo!" I yelled "Jo! Get Jo!"

There were sobs I recognized as Teresa's. Relieved crying. I'm finally saved crying. It's going to be okay crying. I sighed in relief at the good tears. I'd always hated any sort of tears until I was around twenty two and then I had cried some relieved tears of my own for the first time. It had felt so good, so amazingly good, that I had cried some more. Today I did not cry my relieved tears. I don't think I have any left.

There was a crash and my door opened.

Dean.

I promptly rolled out and grabbed the first thing I could to steady myself, which happened to be Dean's arm.

He looked at me and I nodded.

They needed bait.

That's how I got here.

Here being a dark sewer next to Jo with our backs to the wall with at least one dead corpse person to keep us company.

Ellen would never forgive us for letting Jo be bait but a homicidal ghost with a thing for blondes would totally go for a two for one package deal like he had before.

I don't mind being bait when I know I am going to be bait. Usually. In this instance, I have no qualms against being _bait_ at all. What I have a problem with is having my back to the door.

I suppose I've always been like this, a twitchy thought process reinforced too many times in too many situations by too many people.

'I trust them' I think to myself 'I trust them' And I do. I trust them to keep us alive. I'm very good at putting my life in the hands of strangers.

It comes with trusting people to, at the very least, not get you killed (or kill you themselves, but that's less trusting and more praying), your entire life.

I glance over at Jo who is gripping that so called pixie knife in her right hand so hard her knuckles are white. I can't blame her, I'm doing the same with my knife that Dean found in the walls. I clench my hand around the warm, comfortable weight.

It gets cold again.

I clench my open hand into a fist so tight that my nails bite into my skin.

We sit tense, prepared to move at a seconds notice, until

"NOW!"

We both fly forward and crawl toward the boys as there are two gunshots over head.

I can't see the salt fall but I know it does.

Sam and Dean help as get through the door just as the shrieks start. There terrible, horrible, panicked shrieks and somehow I can't find it in me to pity him in the slightest as I sometimes can.

Wonder why.

"SCREAM ALL YOU WANT YOU DICK, BUT THERE'S NO WAY YOU'RE STEPPING OVER THAT SALT!" Jo shouts, clearly pissed over the results of her first hunt.

Herman Webster Mudgett's screams are cut off by the door dropping to the floor.

The car trip back to the Roadhouse is a very long, and very awkward one. Ellen's up front fuming and Dean is in his natural position in the driver's seat. He attempts to make small talk.

He's nervous.

Jo and I share a glance over Sam who is sandwiched between us. As the only two in this car who have had even the remotest amount of having a mother in the last ten years, we know that sneaking off to kill a ghost and telling your mom you're in Vegas is not going to go down well.

In fact she might just kill us.

Maybe.

"How 'bout we listen to some music?" Dean says cheerily flipping on the radio.

" _You're as cold as ice-"_

Oh, the irony.

Ellen flips off the radio and we're plunged back into silence.

Jo and I share another look.

"This is gunna be a long drive."

 **A/N: Another chapter down. My updating might be slower now that I'm back from break. This chapter feels strangely short even though its four pages long on Google Docs. Questions, comments, concerns, episode suggestions, general suggestions, reviews, almost everything is welcome and encouraged! Review below, please! Spanish translation 1) damn walls 2) Get away from me, you son of a bitch!**


	5. Touchy Subjects

**A/N**

 **Harley is kind of bitchy in this chapter but for a good reason. There is a lot of dialogue from the show because it is based on the show. I still own nothing. The POV jumps around a bit too.**

Sitting in a police interrogation room is not exactly how I planned to spend my Saturday.

Look for a hunt, drink some coffee, read a book, watch some terrible television that happens to be in all motels, clean my car, finally figure out what the fuck 'Dana Shulps' means.

Literally almost anything else.

An older chick with dye job hair and a pantsuit comes in holding a thick file.

Everything about her screams 'authority' and in that moment I know that this isn't going to go well.

She looks too much like a caseworker.

Somewhere in my DNA there must be a gene that makes me hate all caseworkers and anyone that even resembles them. After nine years I wonder if that'll ever go away.

Damn pantsuits.

"I brought you some coffee." She says.

I remember from Shaun's Criminal Justice textbooks, that I couldn't seem keep my hands off of, that sometimes during an interrogation they'll be kind to the suspect to build rapport and gain the person's trust until they start to blab.

"You're the good cop, huh?"

It is clearly not the first time that she's heard this. She sets the coffee on the table and I don't take it.

" _They take the cup when you're done and say that they'll throw it away and then they use the DNA that you left and run it through the system, it's legal that way."_ The memory of Shaun explaining a chapter on interrogation from the textbook slams into me like a battering ram and I clench my hands again and again.

Cop lady notices.

"Something wrong?" I remain silent.

"Right. Straight to business then. Do you know why you're here?"

"Well let's see…" I try to look thoughtful "Oh, Right! SWAT broke down the door to my hotel room and dragged me here, no clue why, but, hey, that's the justice system for ya."

Sarcasm seems like the right way to go.

She shakes her head and opens up the file.

"Harlyn Evans, or should I say Harlyn Winchester," I glance over at her.

"Yeah, I know about that. You see I read your file. You were in foster care since you were eight. You jumped around alot. Before you were eighteen you had been in two group homes and roughy fourteen foster homes, one of which was abusive,"

 _That you know of._

"That we know of. When you were fourteen you were placed in your second to last foster home, with Daniel Gram, that you barely made it out of alive. There was a younger boy there with you who didn't survive, Dylan Porter." She sets the file on the table and there are the pictures that the hospital had to take for the police. I flinch and look away before doing what I what I've been doing for years. Focus on something else.

My hands twitch again.

My hands. Probably the oddest thing about me. Perpetually freezing. I have terrible circulation. And they get this weird splotchy red and white color when I physically exert myself or touch something hot. I can't decide whether to keep my nails long or short.

Shaun told me that they twitch when I sleep, he apparently figured this out when we fell asleep holding hands once. I think Talia has a picture of that somewhere.

Dye Job keeps right on talking.

"You stayed in a group home after that before you were placed in your last foster home with the Sanchez family. You're smart. You kept your grades up through everything, graduated early at sixteen, and almost got a full ride to MIT. You graduated with a mechanical engineering degree and a minor in computer sciences. You joined the Marines at the age of twenty and got married to Shaun Evans at twenty one. You were deployed to Afghanistan less than a month later. You did three tours of duty, the first one a little more than a year, the second one was a year, and the third was a little more than two years. The last one didn't go well." She picks the file back up.

I guess I must go white because she lays off on that subject. Or maybe she doesn't know. The details about that stuff is supposed to be military intelligence only.

"You came home for good after a little less than six years of service, not including the four months of training . According to your medical records you attended a support group. Did everything the way it was recommended."

I glare her down finally speaking up.

"You aren't supposed to be able to access my medical records! Ever heard of Patient doctor Confidentiality?"

She continues like she didn't even hear me.

"Your Husband died a little over six months ago, nine months after your return. That must have been hard."

I don't even look at her, I watch as my hands twist at my wedding ring, an unfortunate habit of mine.

Three twists to the right, four to the left, two to the right.

Over and over and over.

She sighs and sets the file back on the table.

"You're a good girl Harlyn. You have never so much as gotten a speeding ticket, so I couldn't figure out why you were seen hanging out with _Sam and Dean Winchester_. A suspected murderer and a potential accomplice! So I did a little more digging and that's how I found out that they're your _brothers._ As a matter of fact, Dean is your twin!"

She laughs airily, like this whole situation is funny somehow. Like my shitty, F-ed up life is just so fucking hilarious.

 _Bitch._

I snarl at her in a way that I hope reminds her that I grew up defending myself and am trained in combat.

 _More combat than she knows._

"And that still didn't make sense to me. How you and your brothers could have been separated, while Sam and Dean stayed together. I read the report that was given to social services. You were injured in a hunting accident one night and taken to a hospital where your father signed away his Paternal rights, and as for your mother, well she died when you were four. You had no family you could be sent to, so you wound up in the system. That had to hurt."

She gives me a sympathetic half smile.

 _What a goddamn bitch._

"Are you about done with the backstory or is there a question buried under that mound of bullshit?" I snapped.

She leaned forward.

"How did you and your brothers reconnect?"

I lean in as well.

"You see Dean and I have this telepathic connection that helps us find each other. It's like twin GPS."

She rolls her eyes and I pretend to be affronted "What, you've never heard of twin telepathy? Figures you'd be a non believer."

"Harlyn I don't think that you know how much trouble your in here. Dean is being held on the suspected murder of Karen and Anthony Giles. We ran Deans prints through Afis and got several possible matches-"

"Exactly! Possible, which means nothing!" I say with a detectable hint of sass and a straight face.

"I understand that they are your brothers-"

"Who haven't done anything-"

"But you haven't seen them in _nineteen years_ and as a soldier in the Marines I thought that you would be more interested in knowing that you have been running with people who have taken innocent lives-"

I roll my eyes but keep the rest of my face neutral.

"I'm sorry, are you still talking to me without my lawyer present?"

She blanches a little and I lean forward more. "That's right bitch, I know the rules of this little game you're playing, I know that you're not supposed to talk with me when I asked for a lawyer over an hour ago and he still isn't here. I also know that you can't keep us here for more than forty eight hours without formal charges and you have nothing on us, or at least nothing that will hold up in court, because **we haven't done anything.** "

"We found your brother, Dean, at the scene of Karon Giles murder-"

"Coincidental! He was going to check on her."

She looks at me for a long time. "If you haven't done anything then why don't you tell us your side of the story."

I take a deep breath and start to lie.

' _Tony and karen were old friends with my Dad… In the service together… weren't even in town when he died… Came to check up on Karen…Seemed upset... Just being good friends…'_

Blah, blah, fucking-blah.

She only stopped me once to mention that people with our description had been seen exiting Giles office.

" _Karen asked us to pick up some stuff from his office the police wouldn't let her in. Sure it was wrong to enter a crime scene but the woman's husband had just died and all she wanted were a few pictures and other small sentimental things."_

And then she but in a couple more times but I explain all of her excuses away.

When I'm done she nods her head and leaves.

I start to relax enough to slouch a little before I pull a Winchester and prop my feet up on the table leaning the chair back.

Dana Shulps. Dana Shulps. Dana Shulps.

 _What if it's not a name?_

 _What if it's an anagram?_

Inhaling a quick gasp, I shoot forward.

 _D._

 _A._

 _N._

 _A._

 _S._

 _H._

 _U._

 _L._

 _P._

 _S._

 _Word games._

 _Why does it have to word games?_

 _Why couldn't it have been numbers, or something I can actually be useful with?_

 **# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #**

"You getting anywhere with him?" Asked Detective Diana Ballard walking into the room that looked into Dean Winchester's interrogation cell.

"No. Just a lot of wiseass remarks. You?" Asked Pete.

"All of their stories match down to the last detail." She responded.

"Yeah, well. These guys are good." Truth is, she wasn't entirely sure anymore. Those guys would have had no time to corroborate their stories, and especially not like this.

"If we don't get Sam," she began

"Or the girl," Pete cut her off

"To flip, we have nothing but a lot of circumstantial evidence" She finished as they left the inbetween room.

"We got Dean at the crime scene with blood on his hands." Pete said obliviously. "Juries have convicted for less."

"Yeah, but I mean, where's the murder weapon? What's the motive? Talk about reasonable doubt…"

"Diana… Do you have reasonable doubt?"

 **# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #**

Harley showed up about ten minutes after he booked the room and just walked right on in.

She marched straight past him with a scowl on her face and plopped down on the bed.

"Alright _Dean._ "

She smirked up at him even though her eyes were still smoldering. "Who do you think told me how to get here, sasquatch?"

He smiled a little and shook his head.

"Did you get the message about 'Ashland street'?"

She hunched over her legs and leaned on her elbows. "Yep. You find anything?"

"A bit." he said gesturing to the laptop on the table "Ashland has a few deaths and disappearances."

"Great." she said pressing down on her right leg with her palm and drug it up and down, like it hurt.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Peachy." she replied through grit teeth "Just peachy."

"How are we going to bust Dean out of jail exactly?" she inquired

"We're not."

"Excuse me?"

There's a knock at the door.

Detective dye job was at the door.

"The fuck do you want?" Harley snapped when she saw who it was.

Sam shot her a look like 'don't poke the bear' and welcomed the detective inside. Once the door was shut she extended her arms and encircling her wrist were four bruises roughly an inch wide each, like she had been restrained.

Just like the others.

She said that Dean had sent her.

"And these showed up after you saw it." asked Sam.

Harley, who was leaning against the door with her arms crossed, just continued glaring at her like she had been ever since the door opened.

"I-I-I guess…" she responded glancing at the Winchester girl before looking at Sam.

"You're going to have to tell me exactly what you saw." Sam continued.

"You know, I must be losing my mind," Harley snorted from her corner which earned looks from both of the room's other occupants.

"You're fugitives. I should be arresting you."

The look on Harley's face exactly portrayed her feelings on the subject and they were somewhere along the lines of 'Go ahead sweetheart, but when you die it's not my problem.' Sam reacted differently.

"Alright, you know what? You can arrest us later, alright, after you look through this. But right now you gotta talk to me, okay?

Dye Job nods carefully, looking like she was fighting her two most primal instincts, survival and arresting criminals.

"Kay, great, now what did the spirit look like?"

"She was, uh, really pale and her throat was cut, and her eyes they were like this deep, dark red. It appeared like she was trying to talk to me… but she couldn't. It was just… a lot of blood." She sank to the bed.

Sam looked sympathetic and Harley relaxed from her guard dog position, seeing a person covered in blood was an unpleasant experience that she wouldn't wish on anybody. She rubbed at her leg again.

"You know what? Come here," said Sam walking over to the table. Harley followed. "It's all of the girls that have ever died or gone missing on Ashland Street."

"How did you get those? Those are from crime scenes and booking photos!"

"You have your job we have ours…" said Sam

"Miss, this might go faster if you just try to not be a cop for the rest of the night." Harley advised. Sam nodded.

"Here I need you to look through these, tell me if you recognize anyone." She nodded and sat back down.

She only had to through three photos before handing the stack back to Sam.

"That's it. That's her, I'm sure of it."

Harley leaned closer and read over Sam's shoulder.

"Claire Becker?"

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"Ya know when I said not to act like a cop for the night, I only meant the 'rules' thing, not the 'being able to shoot a gun' thing." I breathed to Detective Dye Job after the ghost with the hole in her throat got a little too grabby.

Though I'm pretty sure that the apparently deceased Claire Becker didn't touch her.

In fact she didn't seem violent at all, which didn't make her a vengeful spirit it made her a- "Death Omen." I muttered out loud.

"What?" asked Detective DJ

"I'm pretty sure that Claire isn't a vengeful spirit." I said mostly to Sam "I'm 98.7 percent sure that she's a death omen."

He frowned slightly the way teachers do when they find a slight anomaly in your thesis.

I don't bother looking at them, I just turn and walk to the place by the window where Claire had been. I loop my fingers in one of the shelf's rails and start to drag it away from the window.

"Time is of the essence ladies…" I grit out, not even looking over my shoulder. They both move forward and start to move the shelves with me even though judging by the expression on Sam's face he thinks I'm a few wrenches short of a tool box. When the shelves are moved the window displayed:

 **DANA SHULPS**

"Our little mystery word…" says Dye Job slowly

I quickly whip around.

Words written in sunlight show against the brick wall. I pick a long chunk of heavy metal pipe from off the floor and march over. I stop about a foot from the wall and swing the pipe like a louisville slugger, right into the brick. One falls into the wall so I keep swinging until I can just force them in with my hands. Once there's a sizable hole I turn on my flashlight and look inside.

"There's something in here." I turn back to sam.

"Little help?"

Sam comes forward and puts his elbow through the wall multiple times until we can drag a body encased in a canvas bag out and set it on the ground.

Sam flicks open a knife and slices open the rope wrapped around what I can only assume is Claire Becker's throat. He whips open the black canvas bag to reveal a rotted dead body.

Poor Claire Becker.

Dye Job holds out her wrists.

I nod staring at the restraints on Claire Becker.

"They'd be bruised just like yours."

She reaches forward and picks up Claire's necklace.

"That necklace mean something to you?" asks Sam.

She nods with a tight look on her face. "I've seen it before." she drops it and Sam picks it up.

"It's rare." she continues "It was custom made on Carson street."

I shot her a look as she pulls something out of her shirt.

"I have one just like it. Pete gave it to me."

She looks pissed and I can't say I blame her. Her partner, in more ways than one, was using her and is more than likely a dirty cop.

She starts talking about some drugs that disappeared from lock up and I know I'm right.

"Sam?" I ask carefully.

He looks at me questioningly.

"Isn't Pete the Serial Killing cop the guy we left Dean with?"

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"Pete just left the precinct. With Dean."

"What?!" Sam and I say at the same time.

"He said 'The prisoner had to be transferred' and just took 'im." She sounds vaguely flustered. "Dispatch has been calling but he won't answer the radio."

"Radio? He took a county vehicle?"

"Yeah?"

"Then it should have a low jack." I said continuing Sam's line of thought. "You just have to get it turned on and then we can track the car."

 **A/N**

 **Nailed out another chapter, that happens to be seven and a half pages long in google docs. Sad foster kid background. More to come later unless you don't want it. God this chapter took forever to write, I started this before I even posted the last one. Lovin' the reviews, more please! If you want to you can message me. Thanks for the favorites and followings as well. I love being able to put the thoughts in my head out there for other people to see.**


	6. Two Aquari and a Taurus

**A/N Ugh… guys. I tried to get through Croatoan but I got like six pages done and I was only half way through the episode and I had no more ideas so this one is definitely going to be late. I had to skip through a ton of episodes to get to one that I even think I can do. I have ideas on what to do with the sister but that can't even really start until the season two finale, which is six episodes down the line. I'm rewatching the episodes with subtitles so it'll sink in more. Anyone who wants to read what I have of Croatoan can PM me. And to anyone that is struggling to picture Harley, think Amber Heard from 'Drive Angry'.**

 **Two Aquari and a Taurus**

Sam had been missing for a week and Dean was absolutely losing his shit. This was the sixteenth time he had called the Roadhouse in a week and the nineteenth time I called Bobby.

Goose egg.

So we were sitting here under a bridge with me in the passenger seat of Baby waiting for him to get off the phone so we could restart our search. We had dumped my car in a storage unit I own in boston so we could travel together.

I do not belong in the passenger seat of the impala, I never have, I've always been in the backseat.

"Sammy, where the hell are you? Are you okay?" I roll down the window as fast as I can, Dean ignores me.

"Hey, hey, hey, hey. Calm down. Where are you? Are you okay. Alright don't move, we're on our way."

When we find Sam's motel room Dean knocks on the door. Well more like pounds on it actually. I don't blame him. The dread and anxiety I felt over the last week has multiplied the closer we got. Something's wrong, I can feel it, and I think that Dean does to but that might just be big brother worry. There's some sister worry in me too, but there is something else as well. I just can't place it…

"SAM?" Dean calls through the door. I nudge him aside and twist the knob. The door pops right open.

This isn't good. Sam of all people should know to keep the door locked up. We glance at each other before going inside.

Sam is sitting quietly on the bed, hands in his lap, head hanging low.

"Hey." Dean says carefully.

"Hey, Dean." Sam replies softly.

"Are you bleeding?" I ask reaching for one of his bloody hands.

"I tried to wash it off."

Dean reaches forward and moves aside his jacket to reveal a large rust colored stain on his shirt.

"Oh, my God." Dean says keeping his hand on Sam's shoulder.

I go to the bathroom with the ice bowl, fill it with warm water, and grab a rag before returning.

"I don't think that it's my blood." He says in the same voice he used before.

I kneel on the floor in front of him before quietly wiping dried blood off of one of his hands.

"Whose is it?" Dean demands

"I don't know." Sam says watching my hands. I don't know what to do or say about this so I stay quiet and continue to get rid of the blood so I can see what's underneath.

"Sam, what the hell happened?"

Dean is distressed. Again, I don't blame him.

"Dean...I don't remember anything." I glance up. Sam seems worried passed the point of worried, Dean's scared and so am I but I stay calm.

"It's okay." I hear myself say "It's okay we'll figure it out. We can fix this." And then it's like the time when Sammy took a spill in the motel parking lot while Dad was out and I cleaned the blood and gravel out of his knees while Dean held his much smaller hand.

' _It's okay, Sammy. It's okay. We can fix this, I promise. You'll be okay.'_

Dean goes out to get food and ask around about Sam, and I stay here with him. I don't mind babysitting so I lounge on the bed while Sam showers and changes. Dean comes back shortly after sam gets out of the shower with a bag of fast food.

"What'd you find out?"

"You checked in two days ago under the name Richard Sambora." Dean says "I think the scariest part of this whole thing is that you're a Bon Jovi fan."

"Dean."

"Your room's been quiet." Dean says moving his arms "Nobody's noticed anything unusual."

Sam starts pacing "You mean no one saw me walking around covered in blood?"

Dean shrugs a little "Yeah that's what I mean."

"Then how the hell did I get here? What happened to me?" Sammy's getting snippy at Dean's back. I remain silent like a good little nurse. Dean shrugs off his jacket.

"I don't know, but you're okay, and that's what matters." Dean shoves up his sleeves. "Everything else we can deal with." He doesn't look at any of us but his words have conviction

"Oh really?" Sam's got his bitchface on. "'Cause what if I hurt someone? Or worse?"

"Sam." It's the warning tone, the one that I remember from when we were little.

Dean is also bitch facing it.

"What if this is what Dad warned you about?" My muscles tighten instinctively.

John Eric Winchester, Father of the Year.

"Whoa, whoa. Come on man. Let's not jump the gun here. We don't know what happened. We got to treat this like any other job."

Sam shakes his head a little.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"Me and you in that motel room in West Texas."

That was a week ago. A week is a long time to go without remembering anything.

Sam sinks down on to the bed. "We went out to grab some burgers."

"West Texas… That was over a week ago." Dean wonders closer

"That's it." he pauses "Next thing I knew, I was sitting here. Bloody. I felt like I had been asleep for a month."

"Okay. Retrace your steps. Manager said you left yesterday afternoon and never saw you come back." He walked over to the window and pulled back the filmy, white curtain.

Bloody fingerprints on the window handle.

 **# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #**

There is something very wrong with this picture.

We're here. In this guy's house. Standing over his dead corpse body. All the signs are here.

And I somehow can't find it within me to believe that this could have been Sam.

This guy's throat is slit, this is the last place Sam seems to have remembered he's been, and I still can't blame Sam.

He goes "Dean, I did this." and I still don't believe him.

Dean goes "We don't know that." and I agree with him.

"He's right." I say

Sam's stressed, his voice raises a little. "How else do you explain the car, the knife, the blood?"

Dean raises his too. "I don't know man, why don't you tell me?"

Only Sam can't. Because Sam said he doesn't know and that means he doesn't know because Sam isn't a very good liar.

Dean continues "Even if you did I'm sure you had a reason- you know, self defense, he was a bad son of a bitch, something."

He starts to pat down Mr. Dead Guy, looking for weapons, I assume. Or maybe hex bags, or a summoning charm, or something incriminating.

Sam gives a twitchy little head jerk thing.

Dean sighs. "He doesn't have any I.D."

Looks like I was wrong.

"I need your lock pick." says Sam

"What?" asks Dean. I glance over at Sam, silently sharing Deans sentiments.

What the hell could an amnesiac, who thinks he killed a man in cold blood, need a lock pick for?

"I need your lock pick." He moves to the closet. Dean gets up and hands the pick over.

Sam gets the door open pretty fast to reveal a collection of neatly placed guns going all the way up a wall.

"Holy shit." I state aloud.

"Either this guy's a unabomber or-"

"He's a hunter." Sam concludes. "Dean, I think I killed a hunter."

I nod to a camera in the corner. "Let's find out."

 **# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #**

Dean fast forwards on the monitors.

Sam enters with Mr. Dead Guy, both of them fighting but Sam seems to be kicking his ass.

Sam sits quietly watching the monitors, I glance at him out of the corner of my eye.

Camera Sam puts his hand over Mr. Dead Guy's mouth and slits his throat with the knife we found in the car he stole.

The Sam sitting in front of the monitors looks horrified.

Dean pauses the clip and Sam hangs his head in shame.

Dean walks away.

"Move." I say to Sam.

He picks up a letter of the desk.

"Move Sam!" I snap "I have to erase the tapes!"

He doesn't move.

I rip the letter out of his hands and get down to his level. "Look at me." I say.

He doesn't.

"I know how this looks. But there is nothing in that tape that says he wasn't a baddie. Got it? There is nothing there that says that it wasn't him or you. Hunters get possessed or go bad just like anyone else."

"I killed him."

"I know."

"I just broke in and killed him."

"You had too."

"We don't know that."

"Yes we do." He shakes his head.

"Right, Dean?" I say over my shoulder.

Dean looks at me for a moment before picking up the computer CPU and throwing it on the floor before putting his foot through the busted bits.

"Christ, Deanna. Take a midol."

He glares at me before tossing Sam a bandana. "Wipe your prints. Then we go."

I reach into the busted bits of CPU and pull out the hard drive, set it on the ground, and putting my knife through it.

Dean sends me a startled look and I shrug.

"No point in smashing the CPU if you're not going to break the hard drive."

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When we get into the motel room it's dark.

Dean orders Sam to get a few hours of sleep because we leave first thing tomorrow.

"I know this looks bad," Dean says.

Wonder where that was hours ago when I was telling Sam that.

"You gotta snap out of it." Sam starts pacing the room again.

"Sam, say something." Orders Dean in his concerned big brother voice.

"Just get some sleep and leave in the morning?" Sam snarked "Murder, Dean. That's what I did."

"Maybe, okay?" insists Dean. Sam snorts.

"Hey we don't- shapeshifter." It's a weak excuse and Sam has no problem pointing it out.

"Oh, come on. You know it wasn't. You saw the tape. There was no eye flare, no distortion."

"But it wasn't you, alright? Yeah, it might have been you but it wasn't _you._ "

"Well, I think it was." he sinks onto the bed "I think maybe more than you know."

"What the hell does that mean." asks Dean

"For the last few weeks, I've been having… I've been having these feelings."

Ick. Feelings.

"What feelings?" asks Dean.

"Rage...Hate." And the way he says it and the look on his face sends shivers down my spine. Dean sits down on the bed with a pinched expression. "And I can't stop it. It just gets worse. Day by day, it gets worse."

"You didn't tell me that."

Sam shifts. "I didn't want to scare you."

"Well, bang up job on that" Dean says slapping his knee and getting up.

He has a serious tact issue. We might have to work on that.

"Dean, the yellow eyed demon- You know he has plans for me."

I get up from my position at the table with the words of a nightmare ringing through my head. Not Sam's. They belong to someone else.

"And we both know that he's turned other children into killers too."

"Where are you going with this Sam?" I interrupt, not wanting to listen to his speech anymore due to my stomach twisting like it had been shoved into a Maytag.

"Dean," he says "You promised him. You promised me."

Dean is trying to convince Sam that We Will Save Him when sam says: "You'll live to regret this." and pistol whips Dean across the face.

"What the shit, Sam?!" I yelp backing up.

He says nothing, just comes up and knocks me flat on my ass.

I scramble up right. "Sam?"

He sort of smirks and punches me again. Hard. Hard enough for me to see stars.

I fall again but this time I kick out at his knees my foot collides with his leg but he doesn't even flinch. He sends his foot into my rib cage and stomach a few times just for funzies.

I lash out when he picks me up by the front of my jacket.

It's not sam. I know that now . It's not Sam.

I land a right hook on the side of his face.

It's not Sammy.

He just smiles. "You're lucky I need you alive." I keep fighting even though it's getting pathetic. He has me by my jacket up so high the toes of my boots are barely brushing the ground. Another punch has blood streaming from my nose.

My fists might as well be rabbit paws for all of the damage that they're doing.

It's not Sam.

He smirks again and pitches me into the wall.

My head collides with the window's glass and just like that I'm gone and so is the world.

It all goes dark.

It's not Sam.

I wake up in the passenger seat of the impala with my head resting on Dean's shoulder.

It takes a while for me to understand what the fuck's going down right now and how I got here.

I groan and sit up, wrapping my arms around my ribs as we go over a bump.

"Mornin' Sunshine." Dean quips.

I groan and drag my hand down my face. "That wasn't Sam that did this," I start

"I know," Dean interjects.

"But," I continue "Goddamn does that boy pack a punch." I rub my hand along my tender jaw. I glance into the mirror. It has bruised pretty nicely in the time that I've been unconscious. It's a dark blue color spanning most of the right side of my job. If I lifted up my shirt my torso would probably be the same color.

I grin crazily at him to show that I'm not mad even though it hurts a little due to the split lip Sam dished out.

"You're insane." he mused.

"That's what they keep trying to tell me." I laugh aloud.

"Got you pretty good, huh?"

"Well, he's got a good nine inches as who know how much weight on me." I whine "Hardly a fair fight."

He snorts.

I send him a teasingly snide look. "At least I didn't get bitch slapped with a pistol, like this Winchester guy I know. God, would that be embarrassing."

He rolls his eyes,

"Seriously, though." I say sobering up. "You guys need to get warded. If you don't want a tattoo get a pendant, because you two make some dangerous prom dresses."

 **# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #**

After the final battle I mop everybody up. I mother hen like I used to, doing what I was trained for. Dean tries to tell me that my services aren't necessary so I tell him to shut up and let me feel useful for a minute. Bobby's relatively fine. A few bruises and a bump on his head.

Sam's the next. I chuck him an ice pack and tell it to put it on his arm while I check Dean over, then I toss him another one for wherever else.

Dean's pretty well off too, considering. No concussion, which is good. The cut on his eyebrow isn't deep, his nose isn't broken, but his stitches were torn open.

Sam keeps glancing at us all guilty so I ask him if he can get me some witch hazel, just to make him leave. Truth is I already had plenty of peroxide which works just as well on an infection. He leaves long enough for me to mostly patch Dean up. I wiping neosporin on the wound when he comes back with a clear plastic bottle. He sets it lightly on the table beside me.

I smile at him "Thanks Sam." I nod to a chair. "Sit."

I slap some gauze on Dean's arm, quick swipe the witch hazel over Dean's split eyebrow to make it seem like I actually needed it and send him on his way to go get a beer or take a nap or something.

Then it's on to sam.

He's pretty good too, other than the wicked burn there are a few minor bruises.

I put neosporin on the burn, bandage that up, and give him back the ice pack.

"Harley, I'm sorry." He's got his guilty puppy dog eyes on looking at my face.

"Why? You break into my car again?"

"No. I'm sorry about-" he motions to my face.

I touch my jaw. "What? This? This is nothing. It doesn't even hurt anymore."

Lie. Total lie. It is nothing compared to a lot of the beatings I've received but it did hurt.

"And even if it was something, you have nothing to apologise for."

"But-"

"Nothing. It wasn't you, it was that demon bitch Ruby."

I look from Dean to Sam. "You boys look like shit."

Sam smiles a little and Dean goes "Right back at ya."

Mission accomplished.

Bobby comes into the living room from the kitchen.

"You kids ever hear about a hunter named Steve Wandell?"

We all shift a little. I'm not sure I'm cool with lying to Bobby."

"Why do ask?" questions Dean, avoiding the question entirely. Apparently he doesn't fancy lying to Bobby either.

"Just heard from a friend, Wandell's dead," He looks each of us in the eye, when he gets to me I try to keep a neutral expression. I assume that I succeed because he moves on.

"Murdered in his own house." Sam looks away.

"You wouldn't know anything about that."

"No, sir. Never heard of the guy." says Dean.

"Dean." Sam chastises.

"Me either." I say shooting Sam a look. Like _shut up._

"Good." says Bobby, also shooting Sam a look. "Keep it like that. Wandell's buddies are looking for someone or something to string up. They're not going to slow down and listen to reason. You understand what I'm saying."

Dean nods. "We better hit the road…" he turns to Sam "If, uh, you can remember where we parked the car." We all get up.

"Here," Bobby says dropping something into each of the boys' hands.

"What are they?" asks Sam

"Charms. They'll fend off possession." he nods at me "That demon is is still out there. This will stop it from getting back up in you."

"That sounds vaguely dirty, but thanks."

"You're welcome. You be careful now."

"You too."

Then we leave and I'm back in the back seat where I belong listening to 'Back on the road again.'

God, I love this car.

 **A/N**

 **God that took for ever. I still own nothing. R and R please.**


	7. Highway to Hell

**Took forever but I finally finished. I don't claim to own anything but my OC's**

I don't remember how exactly I got here.

I don't remember getting in the car.

Leaving Cold Oak.

I can't even remember who's car I rode in.

I can't… I don't… Did I ride with Dean?

Did I ride in the backseat of the Impala like I always do? Did Dean put Sammy in the front seat where he belongs, as if he were just sleeping? Or did he put him in the back while I was in Bobby's truck?

Does it matter?

Do I even really care?

No.

No I don't care.

Not even a little bit.

Because what I do remember is the knife going into Sam's back and knowing, _knowing,_ even before Dean's terrible, gut wrenching scream of " _SAM!"_ that Sam was dead.

Because I was close enough to know that that knife went straight through his spinal cord but not close enough to stop it and then Dean was running and Jake was running and Bobby was running and everyone was running and I was just standing there.

And then I was running too, but not to Sam. I was running after Jake, after Bobby.

And Dean was in the dirt, clinging tight to his baby brother.

And I was running after Jake because Jake _stabbed_ my Sammy, _my_ puppy eyed brother and I knew that he didn't need me and Dean didn't need me but I could go after Jake.

I could run down that cowardly bastard and I could make him _hurt._ I could make him _pay_ in ways that I couldn't make anyone else who ever hurt anyone I loved _pay._

Only I couldn't.

I ran and ran and ran. I out ran Bobby and just kept running.

But he was gone. Disappeared into the night and the trees and the darkness.

All the while Dean screamed " _SAM! SAMMY! SAM!"_

And that _hurt._ That _cut_ straight through me. Who I used to be. Because I _knew._

And now I'm here. In this run down house that's covered with dirt and dust and grime and Sam is laying down on that old bed like he might just be sleeping. Like his blood isn't soaking through that shitty mattress and like Dean hasn't aged lifetimes in the last day.

Like they didn't just lose everything.

And my eyes hurt and my throat hurts which usually means that my body is trying its best to cry but that sure as hell isn't going to happen because if Dean, who raised Sam, isn't crying then I definitely don't get to. I don't get to grieve for someone who I helped raise for four years and then disappeared on. I don't get to do that.

What I do get to do is sit here on the dusty floor with my knees to my chest like a child, and I get to think. I get to think about the _fucking demon blood_ that runs through me and Jake and that used to run through Sam but is now in the mattress.

And I get to think about all of those people who I couldn't save, or killed depending on how you look at it, and all of the times I screwed up and _maybe if you had just been stronger Dad would have kept you around and then none of this would have ever happened and Shaun would still be alive and all of those people who's lives you intruded on would be happier and Jesus Christ Harley what is the matter with-_

"Dean?"

My head lifts up from my knees with a jerk as Bobby ambles in with a bucket of chicken.

I let out a soft whoosh of breath and let my head drop back down.

This is stupid.

Sam is dead and Bobby thinks that he can feed Dean fried chicken.

Tan estupido.

"Brought you this back." Like nothing happened and everything is all peaches and cream.

"No thanks, I'm fine." He is calmer than I would be.

Then again a piece of him just died.

Then Bobby goes "Harley?"

And I go "No," letting the sound is muffled slightly by my knees.

Someone sighs loudly and I sincerely doubt that it was Dean.

"You two need to eat."

I need to eat like I need a hole in my head.

I turn my head up enough to see, my mouth still covered. Dean drinks a swig of whiskey, which actually sounds really good right now-

No.

God Harley, you selfish bitch. Get it together.

"I hate to bring this up, I really do, but don't you think it's time...we bury Sam?"

"Mala idea estúpida terrible." I mumble into my knees.

Dean turns and looks at Bobby with those awful, dead eyes. "No." he says.

"Well, we could maybe-" As much as I love Uncle Bobby he really needs to shut up right now.

"What? Torch his corpse?"

There is a pause.

"Not yet." Dean says in answer to his own question. Bobby bends down slightly.

"I want you to come with me. _Both of you."_ Part of me almost wants to snort. While I may be manipulated, Dean would never leave Sam.

He says as much. I say nothing.

"Please." Bobby says.

"Oh, would you cut me some slack?"

"I just don't think you should be alone, that's all."

And he's right. Dean shouldn't be alone. Dean alone is going to do something stupid. I can tell.

One could make the argument that he is not alone because I'm here. Only I'm not.

I'm here but I'm not _here,_ here. I don't think I can even get up off the floor right now.

I am of no use to anyone.

"I gotta admit, I could use your help."

I could really use a bottle of bourbon and a time turner right about now so I can go so far back in time that none of this could ever happen but that ain't gonna happen.

Dean snorts softly.

"Something big is going down."

Do I care? Does Dean care?

Nope.

"End of the world big!"

"WELL THEN LET IT END!"

I saw this coming but flinch anyway.

"You don't mean that." Bobby says quietly.

Only he does. Because when someone you love, someone you truly, deeply love dies, you do not care about anything else.

Meteors could strike Earth and wipe out the entire human race and you could give absolutely no fucks.

Dean knocks over a chair. "You don't think so?" he says just as softly "You don't think I've given enough? You don't think I've paid enough?"

I think he's paid too much. I think Sam's paid too much. I think Bobby's paid too much. Dad paid to much. TJ paid to much. Shaun paid too much.

The Winchester's have paid too damn much

"I'm done with it. All of it." There is a slight pause. "If you know what's good for you, you turn around and get the hell out of here."

I jerk a little as he screams "Go!" and shoves Bobby, hard.

"I'm sorry." Dean says after a second.

"I'm sorry. Please just go." I get the feeling that he means me too, so I shove myself up on shaky legs, swaying only slightly.

Bobby glances over at me. I wrap my arms around my middle, tightly.

"You know where I'll be." Bobby says turning to leave. I follow and say nothing.

 **# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #**

Bobby's house smells just like I remember it did. Like old books, and whiskey, and motor oil and a little bit of sweat. When I was little I thought- knew- that that is what home smelled like.

And home is where you were safe.

Part of me always knew from the moment that I stepped in that we were safer here than we were with my father in any of those shitty motel rooms.

Uncle Bobby was always Uncle Bobby.

We were five, our Mom was dead and our Dad was...busy. Sammy was just starting to get good at toddling around and was kind of hard to keep up with. We, Dean and I, were supposed to be in school. Instead Dad signed us up for long days in cruddy motel rooms and preschool for hunters. None of us could read, so we took turns making up wild stories to keep Sammy interested.

I used to think back to the good days when Mom and Dad read us stories and felt truly awful for Sam.

And then one day Daddy dropped us off at an old salvage yard for two weeks, introducing us to a mister Bobby Singer " _You'll be staying with him for a while be good and look out for Sammy."_ And then he was gone.

Bobby put us in a room up stairs and set up Sammy's Pack and Go crib.

For dinner he made us chocolate chip pancakes and listened as Dean and I made up a Special Sammy Bedtime Story that had something to do with dinosaurs (me) and Batman (Dean). The vast majority of the time we would fill in each other's sentences, which was what we were best at.

And Bobby really seemed to enjoy our stories.

He laughed at the funny parts and smiled at the rest. And oddly enough, it didn't feel awkward like it did when Dad was around to hear us. I didn't feel as silly.

He was Uncle Bobby and his house was Home by the time Dad came back.

And that was that.

 **# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #**

Eventually day turns to night and night turns to morning and then afternoon and I sit in the same place on Bobby's old couch with my nose buried into book after book, looking for things about demons, That Yellow Eyed Bastard, sigils, etc.

And they are fucking _everywhere._ Everywhere except southern Wyoming, where everyone is circling the wagons around one large chunk of land that no one sets foot on.

Because that makes sense.

The house is quiet except for the heavy turning of pages and the occasional mention of something that _could_ be helpful or _may_ be important but honestly probably isn't.

Bobby makes a pot of black coffee that he doesn't drink but I do.

I hate black coffee, I always have.

When I was a kid I drank it to stay awake, my equation being caffeine plus bitter taste plus hatred equals insomnia which equals more study/homework time which equals good grades which equals college which happy life.

A flawless theory until I got sick or wasn't allowed to have coffee. And I didn't factor in exterior circumstances.

You'd think that after all of these years that my tastebuds would stop with the 'I hate you' routine but even now as I take a sip and hold it in my mouth I kind of want to spit it out.

But I don't. I never do.

I work my way through almost an entire pot of coffee and only move to go to the bathroom and get more coffee or books or my laptop.

Bobby drinks beer and occasionally tries to get me to eat something, I say no every time, he huffs, and we go back to reading quietly.

There is nothing to say.

The time trickles by until a knock comes at the door and Bobby rises out of the easy chair to get it.

"Sam?"

Sam?

The book is out of my hand and I'm off of the couch before the next words are out of Bobby's mouth.

"Its nice to see you up and around." I practically run to the door, whipping myself around the corner.

What. The. Fuck.

Sam is standing in the doorway, smiling and breathing and alive. He towers over Dean all innocent while Dean is white faced and guilty looking.

Dean spots me from where I stand frozen in the hall and for half a second we make eye contact. " _What did you do?"_ My eyes ask, " _What the fuck did you do?"_

He looks away.

Sam claps Bobby on the shoulder and thanks him for patching him up. Patching up his severed spine.

The boys come in past Bobby.

"Hey, Sam." I say, jumping on the bandwagon of lies that Dean and Bobby are on.

Sam didn't die, he just got hurt and Dean didn't do something to bring him back from the dead, no sir.

"Well, Sam's better and we're back in now." Dean says "We're back in it now, so what do you know?"

Bobby explains the whole Wyoming shabang and asks Sam for some fresh eyes before not so subtly directing Dean outside. I follow because there is no way in hell that I'm missing whatever explanation he has for whatever he did.

We move deep into the heart of the Singer Salvage Yard before Bobby snaps like a kit-kat all "YOU STUPID ASS WHAT DID YOU DO?" He asks it again ' _what did you do?'_ getting more violent the less Dean answers.

"You made a deal." It's not a question.

He made a deal. He made a fracking deal with some demon bitch at some crossroads in the middle of fucking nowhere and they gave him ten years for the rest of Sam's life and-

"How long did they give you?"

"HOW LONG?"

Dean shakes his head slightly before forfeiting the silent game that he seems to be playing.

"A year."

A year. As in one single, solitary year. 364.4 days to live before he gets torn to shreds and thrown on the rack.

"'Damn it, Dean!" I say, running my hand through my hair. "Just- God Dammit."

"Which is why we gotta find this yellow-eyed son of a bitch. That's why I'm gonna kill him myself I mean, I got nothing to lose now, right?"

Bobby grabs him by the front of his shirt.

"I could throttle you!"

And then Dean makes a half-hearted hell joke.

And I turn on my heel and I walk away, because I'm done. I don't want to hear anymore. If I hear anymore I will lose my shit, here and now. I'm weaving through the cars and trying to block out the words about how now his life can mean something.

It doesn't work.

 **# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #**

"Hey, lady. Do me a favor. Put that gun to your head." Dean glances over to Harley who hasn't even twitched from her stance with her handgun trained on that Jake kid's chest. She seems to be the calmest of the whole group, face void of all emotion. Just breathing without one single twitch except to move her glock enough to follow its target.

It's Ellen that raises her gun shakily to let the barrel rest at the side of her head.

"See, that Ava girl was right. Once you give into it, there's all sorts of new Jedi mind tricks you can learn."

Harley snorts slightly but doesn't turn away from Jake. Hatred and shame are prominent in her eyes.

"Let her go." Sam growls.

"Shoot him." Ellen says, voice shaking slightly.

"Gladly." Harley says, finger tensing on the trigger.

"You'll be mopping up skull before you get a shot off." Jake says mockingly, turning to Harley.

"Isn't that right?" She does not move or respond other than to narrow her eyes slightly.

He smirks. "Everybody, put your guns down." He looks over to Ellen. "Except you sweetheart."

Bobby's drops first, then Dean's, then Harley's, and finally Sam's.

"Okay," Jake says "Thank you."

There is a split second that everyone stays frozen until Jake suddenly bolts for the door and everyone but Sam goes for Ellen.

It doesn't take long for Ellen to be unarmed and for Sam to unload a clip into Jake who is obviously not going to survive after the fourth round.

He keeps firing.

All the while the star on the door keeps spinning around the colt, around and around and around until _clank._

"Oh, no." Harley says "Bobby is that what I think it is?"

"What?" Sam asks looking up from Dead Jake, "What is it."

"It's a devil's gate."

 **Responses to the death of The Yellow Eyed Demon is probably going to be in the next chapter. I'm so sorry it took so long to update this chapter. Writer's block sucks for everyone involved. Spanish translations 1. So stupid. 2. Bad, stupid, terrible idea. Please R and R, and if you see any grammar mistakes or other errors please PM me. I already updated a few things but I'm not sure if I fixed it all.**


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